


Tear the Old One Out

by Rrrowr



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Gen, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Calm down and get straight.<br/>It's in our eyes. It's how we operate.<br/>You're true. You are.<br/>I'd apologize but it won't get very far.</p>
<p>The choir room is quiet when Kurt gets to it. When he pushes the door open, all Kurt sees is pools and pools of thick, bright red, and in the middle of it all: a figure with which Kurt is very familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear the Old One Out

When Kurt enters the choir room, it's late -- cover of darkness kind of late -- and he's in a bit of a rush to make sure that he doesn't completely miss New Directions celebrate their complete and utter defeat at Nationals. The choir room is quiet when he gets to it, though, and when he pushes the door open, all Kurt sees is--

Red.

Pools and pools of thick, bright red, and in the middle of it all: a figure with which Kurt is very familiar. Blaine has one knee down in all that red, which -- Kurt is just now realizing -- is fresh blood, and he's pushing back some rather dirty locks of hair away from Quinn's face.

"Oh, my god," Kurt gasps.

Suddenly, the crumpled shadows beyond Blaine take shape in the form of Finn and Rachel and Santana and... _everyone_. To his utter horror, Kurt recognizes every face and can't move for the shock of it. That is, of course, when Blaine turns to look at Kurt over his shoulder. The lower half of his face is coated in blood. 

Kurt recoils on instinct, but in the next moment, starts picking his way toward Blaine through the puddles of blood and the streak marks, the scattered chairs and the ropes. "What happened?" he asks.

Blaine is disconcertingly unresponsive, though he does stand. Kurt suspects shock and can't really blame him. Personally, Kurt doesn't want to -- can't -- think about what he's seeing until he's got Blaine out of the room. Maybe then he can start concentrating on calling the cops. Then, just as Kurt's managed to cross half the choir room without his shoes touching any of the... the _red_ , Blaine bends and pulls from Quinn's side a long, narrow knife -- not unlike the ones his dad uses when filleting meat. Which is actually very much not the path that Kurt wants his thoughts to take right now. 

Though he can't say exactly why, Kurt stops cold. He has absolutely zero interest in progressing further. His eyes are fixated on the knife and the way that Blaine flexes his fingers around the handle. It's even more unnerving to see Blaine raise that knife and sweep it hard through the air, shaking off the blood that clings to its edge.

"Blaine," he ventures. "You should be more careful with that. You probably shouldn't be touching it at all."

"Relax, Kurt," Blaine says, throwing the words over his shoulder so offhandedly that it inspires Kurt to do exactly the opposite. Kurt tenses up, slightly offended, but Blaine just carries on as he turns toward Kurt, cleaning the knife with a square piece of soft cloth. "I know what I'm doing. I’ve learned a lot more at McKinley than I expected to.”

Kurt takes a surreptitious step backwards, hoping that Blaine won’t hear his retreat while his attention is on the knife. “O-oh?” he says.

The sinking idea that Blaine is responsible for all of this teases in the back of Kurt's mind. It's outrageous. Blaine -- _his Blaine_ \-- would never... He simply wouldn't be capable of it. Sure, there was a bit of a temper underneath all that niceness, but that's why Blaine still went boxing regularly. While Blaine could read body language like a champ, he was utterly clueless when it came to things like romance and jealousy, but being clumsy with the finer workings of higher emotions didn't mean anything really. It certainly didn't mean that the sticky sweet scent of blood was present because Blaine had been the one to spill it.

It just _couldn't_ \--

But Blaine eventually replies, “Yeah,” as he tucks the soft cloth into his front pocket. He doesn’t seem to notice that his clothes are splattered all over with blood — from the folded hems of his high-waters to the outrageously pink bow tie. “Quinn, she... Oh, she was amazing. She taught me how to be _perfect_.”

“Quinn?” Kurt echoes, voice turning dangerously into a squeak thanks to his nerves.

“Mmhm. It was a team effort,” Blaine explains. He picks some grit off the flat of the blade with his thumbnail, even going so far as to breathe hotly on it when the grit fails to come off quickly. “Well, right up until the end, anyway,” he amends with a little chuckle and turns just enough so he can nudge Quinn's face with his shoe. “Isn't that right, sweetie?”

Kurt realizes distantly that he's shaking. The fear that burns cold in his blood is worse than anything Karofsky ever inspired, but worse still is the dreaded comprehension that he's been at his most vulnerable with someone who is capable of something... something like this. Never in his life has he seen so much blood or so much vicious, stinking gore, and the smell alone is enough to make him choke.

He doesn't know how Blaine stands it; he doesn't want to know.

Blaine holds a hand out to him. It's clean but for the edges of his fingers, which have red smeared on the sides. "Kurt?" he says. It's the same, soft inquiry Blaine uses when he's been trying to get Kurt's attention. Blaine's mouth quirks into an uncomfortable smile and his fingers twitch, beckoning.

It's the hand that Kurt loves. It's the hand that's touched him and held him. It's the hand that had gripped Kurt's so strongly from the moment they met, and looking at it now, Kurt just wants to throw up. Still, Kurt's friends form an impressive stack behind Blaine. Kurt thinks that, if he doesn't play along, he might become one of them. He just has to take Blaine's hand.

Kurt stares at Blaine's hand. And keeps staring.

He can't do it.

He just _can't._

So he turns tail and _runs._

Naturally, Blaine catches him at the door, yanking him back by the collar and quickly wrapping one arm around Kurt's neck. He brings the knife up in front of them, and Kurt sags awkwardly away from it, letting Blaine drag him backwards, heels kicking at the floor to stay somewhat upright.

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt." Blaine clicks his tongue and snaps his teeth by Kurt's ear as he dumps him into one of the chairs. "You know, it's really a shame that you decided to run."

Kurt can feel a cool wetness seeping through the back of his shirt; it makes his skin crawl. Despite being covered in red, Blaine moves with no such discomfort as he turns the knife over and over in his hands. Seeing it catch the hazy fluorescent light overhead, Kurt flails, panicked, trying to get Blaine away from him. He doesn’t even care about the knife anymore or whether he cuts himself, but Blaine shoves Kurt hard into his chair, holding the blade away so that Kurt doesn’t catch it with his hands on accident. Eventually, Kurt settles and readjusts his clothing, determined that — if nothing else — he’ll face death as he does everything else: with dignity.

“What are you going to do to me?” he demands, feeling the edges of his usual snark pull ragged around his words even as Blaine's fingers squeeze around his collarbone before withdrawing entirely. “Cut me open and feed me to the guests at your house?”

Blaine laughs and pulls a chair toward him, swiveling it around and sitting on it backwards. “Do you want me to?”

Willing himself not to let his surprise show, Kurt looks away instead — away from Blaine and away from the bodies piled to his right. 

Blaine chases his gaze and mercilessly wheedles at his flimsy defense. “Come on, Kurt. You can tell me anything, remember?”

“What I want,” Kurt ends up snapping, “is my boyfriend back. And my friends to be _alive_ —” here, he chokes, as if the word alone is an acknowledgement of what Blaine has done, “—and for this day to never have happened! God what the hell is _wrong_ with you, Blaine! Where’s the boy I fell in love with? Where’s the boy that didn’t want to go to prom with me because it brought back memories of being beat up?”

Blaine says nothing immediately. He stands, though, twists the chair around, scoots it closer to Kurt, and then takes his seat again. Having set the blade on the floor for a moment, he also takes Kurt’s hands in both of his.

“Hey,” he coos, ducking his head sweetly so that Kurt can see him through the completely _undignified_ tears. “Hey, look at me.”

Kurt does.

Blaine’s brows are angled hopefully upward. He smiles, squeezing Kurt’s fingers. “You didn’t actually believe all that, did you?”

Kurt shudders. The completeness of Blaine's betrayal and his illusion sinks in, leaving a foul taste in Kurt's throat. His voice is a sour croak when he confesses, "I-- I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't --"

His fingers have turned cold, completely numb with shock. He pulls one hand from Blaine's grasp and rubs his face with it.

"I don't--"

He doesn't _feel_ anything right now, and though he wants to say so, he can't quite get the words out. His attention drifts past Blaine, who is turning one of Kurt's hands over and baring his arm, to the spill of blood across the floor. He can't even really smell _that_ anymore, so that's a blessing--

Then pain, searing hot, scalds its way up Kurt's arm. Panic sets in again, but as much as he jerks and fights, kicking his chair back in his scrabble for freedom, Blaine's hold on his wrist remains fast. Blaine pulls Kurt closer, if anything, and almost casually, he draws the knife over Kurt's arm a second time, cutting shallowly and swiftly. 

"Let me go!" Kurt shouts, begs as Blaine works the blood to the surface with his thumb. "Please, let me go, oh my god, please -- it hurts, Blaine, please! Stop, stop, _stop_ \--"

"Now, now," Blaine scolds, gesturing toward his recent victims, "begging didn't get _them_ anywhere." He tucks the blade under Kurt's chin and taps him with it. "And as handsome and talented as you are, Kurt, you're not going to be an exception. It's a level playing field with me."

Blaine braces his foot against Kurt's hip, pushing him back with it, and readjusts his grip on Kurt's wrist so that he has Kurt's arm drawn to its full length. He cuts a gap in Kurt's sleeve and bares a little more skin.

"It's a virtue, you know," Blaine starts off conversationally. "Being able to view people the same, no matter what. Not being influenced by where people come from or who their parents are. Seeing you for exactly what you are and what you can do and nothing more."

Blaine plays the tip of the knife on the inside of Kurt's elbow, digging in until a drop of blood wells up around it, until a whimpering cry bursts out from behind Kurt's gritted teeth. "To me, you guys are individually capable, sure. You work hard enough, and between all twelve or thirteen of you, maybe New Directions has a couple grains of talent to rub together. But on your own, you're just the same as anyone else. Idealistic, hopeful, and self-interested. But not one of you is really ruthless enough to do what it takes to get what you want, no matter the cost."

He grins at Kurt. "Just like Nyada, right?"

"You know, I almost thought Rachel had it in her," Blaine announces abruptly as he traces the knife over Kurt's bicep. Goosebumps shiver to life in the wake of its touch. No matter how hard Kurt tries to escape it, the knife continues on its teasing path to the round curve of his shoulder. "I thought she was going to let you take the fall for the voting scandal and ruin your already abysmal chances at Nyada. But then she wussed out."

"That's why she's on the bottom of the pile," Blaine tells Kurt and then digs the knife right in.

This time, Kurt screams.

Kurt screams and screams and screams. He keeps screaming until he feels his throat go raw with it, until his body merely goes rigid with the pain but has no further outlet. Every attempt at running only finds him cut up some more and thrown to the ground. 

He _hurts_ in more ways than he thought imaginable. It's not merely in body, though that's bad enough with Blaine becoming more passionate with the knife -- cutting deeper and slower and more frequently -- as he explains how each member of New Directions had shown such promise before ultimately proving to be a disappointment.

("And you know how much I hate that word," he says as he cuts the final T in _disappointment_ in Kurt's back.) 

Blaine murmurs mockeries of the words that Kurt treasures, calling him sweetheart and telling him that he's doing so good and that he's so proud that Kurt hasn't given up yet.

"Please," he begs. His voice is barely a whisper. "Blaine, please. I love you."

That is, in the end, the worst of all the hurts. The face that he sees is still the one that he loves, though it's speckled with red and his eyes are darkly fascinated with the blood pooling around them. When Kurt twists around reaches up to touch his face, Blaine jolts slightly under his hand like a startled beast.

"I love you," Kurt says again, feeling a bit of hope kindling inside his chest. 

Blaine stammers. "Love? Y-you still do? After all this?"

Kurt doesn't look where Blaine looks -- not to the blank-faced masks of his friends -- but he nods as firmly as he's able, cupping the back of Blaine's neck. It's at least a little bit true anyway, and amazingly, Blaine's hand drops between them. He's looking at Kurt with wide eyes -- awed and in disbelief.

Kurt tugs on Blaine weakly. "Does that still mean anything to you?"

"Of course," Blaine gasps. "Of course, it means something to me."

He pulls Kurt from the floor for a tight, one-armed hug and buries his face in Kurt's neck. He doesn't notice Kurt tipping his head back and looking to the ceiling, breathing carefully away from Blaine's blood-soaked hair. 

"It means everything to me," he continues to say, and all at once, he slides the knife low into Kurt's belly.

Kurt seizes, hands scrabbling at Blaine's back, at his arm, at his wrist, but when Blaine wrenches the knife a little deeper, all the air deserts Kurt's lungs. He can't speak. He can't scream. He can't do anything but shudder in Blaine's ruthless grasp.

Blaine nuzzles along Kurt's jaw and presses a soft kiss to his chin. "You're sweet," he says, smiling when Kurt lets loose a little whimper as he pulls out the knife, "but that's not going to save you."


End file.
